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actions in which he had participated, he felt, almost always,
as if he were reading of something in which he had had no
part, of something that had* happened a very long time
before. The event, in the print there on the page, was
meaningless and ghostly, for he would recall, for instance,
how one man had said, riding along, "Hit's gitten right
seasonable." That made it all very different from what was
on the page, deeds done by men for reasons that involved
their flesh and blood, their hunger, pride, and hopes, their
whole beings. The definition of things on a page was differ-
ent. Or when he read the statement made by a victim he
felt the same unreality, the same lack of conviction.

" About two in the morning, or maybe it was half-past
two, I woke up because I heard a noise. Then my wife
said to me somebody was at the door. So I put on some
clothes and went to the door and asked who was there.
They said they had to use the telephone, it was impor-
tant, and so I opened the door. There were two men
standing there on the porch, and one of them said, ' Sir,
it won't do you any good to resist/ Or something like
that. Then I could see some other men coming out in
the open from the shadow. They had white masks on,
as good as I could tell."

It was different, for Mr. Munn could remember the pale,
strained face of the man standing in the doorway of the
house, the sleepy call of the woman's voice from back inside,
asking who it was there, her husband's answer that nothing
was wrong, and then her shrill voice calling, " Tom, Tom,
don't you go off with those men, don't you do it." She must
have looked out a window and seen the men in the yard.

Even a man telling with his own lips what had happened
to him seemed to be talking about something that had no
immediate importance. " Yeah, yeah," the man said, " they
roused me out, and said they wanted to talk to me. And
seeing how many they was I lowed as how it'd be a pleasure,